


Only One Kind of Love

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-07
Updated: 2004-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ask your family doctor, it's all understood.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Only One Kind of Love

It doesn't seem right that in all those years with Justin, both of your hormones in overdrive and just fucking all the time, nothing like this had ever happened. You'd never even had a scare, not once, and you knew damn well you weren't as careful as you should have been, not that you had any reason to be, because you didn't. You loved each other always, took care of each other, made room for each other, and it was everything you ever wanted, only not with each other, and you both knew that, too.

Just like you knew Chris would wake up one day and see Justin for the man that he'd become, because truth was truth, and the truth was no one could resist Justin forever, not even Chris. Of course, you knew that would be the end of you and Justin, but you were happy for them, you really were. You were more careful after that, though. A lot more careful.

You still went out, of course you did, you had to, you were Lance Bass, but you didn't pick up much anymore because it was too damn risky, and besides, there was Jesse to consider now, and you were careful about that, too. Because Jesse's all kinds of hot and fantastically organized, and he likes the same things you like, and he wears the same shirts you wear, and he doesn't mind being photographed all the fucking time because he's an honest-to-god model, and seriously, all things considered, he's one a hell of a personal assistant and the best beard you've ever had.

And then, fuck, one mind-blowing night with JC in Vegas, the sounds he made, the way he tasted, the feel of him in your mouth, pulsing and alive and later, buried so deep inside you weren't sure where he started and you began, and now here you are back in LA, watching the sun rise with your dick in one hand and a pregnancy test in the other, and it's all so fucking ridiculous. It is, you know it is, because you can't be pregnant. It's not possible, not fucking possible, but you've been seeing those damn two lines running over everything, embedded in your vision since you took a deep breath and opened your eyes and saw them in the little plastic window of yesterday's test stick, dull pink and impossible and plain as day.

Still, you promised yourself you would do this again because if the first one was really reliable there wouldn't have been another test in the box, and because you've been a little in love with JC since you were seventeen and you didn't think you'd ever have a chance with him, and then you did. And it was amazing, incredible, the best night of your life, the best sex of your life, and you wouldn't regret it, couldn't regret it, but you sort of do, anyway, because it was just one night and even pregnancy tests come in twos.

You aren't even sure what there is to regret, because JC doesn't stop calling from wherever he his now, doesn't stop leaving you messages in haiku, doesn't slow his sexy mumble when you pick up the phone, his voice low and soft and shivering in your ear. It means something, you know it does, because with JC everything means something, but really, you're not sure what. You're not sure about a lot of things.

You thought you had the flu or something, thought you were dehydrated, nauseous and queasy and just so damn tired, thought it was nothing until that conference call two weeks ago, Johnny trying to get everything set up for the new recording session, the other guys chiming in with ideas and suggestions and all you could do was swallow hard and mumble excuses before clutching your stomach and bolting to the bathroom. Twice. The third time, Joey made some crack about morning sickness and Chris snorted and Justin giggled and JC murmured, soft and soothing, and even though you knew it was a joke you started counting back, ticking through the tail end of JC's tour schedule, matching up the dates. You ducked your head between your knees, then, dark spots dancing behind your eyes, your mind reeling.

Over the speakerphone you could still hear the guys discussing where to record, and Johnny saying he thought you should stay all together, rent a house maybe, fix up a little studio there so you could record whenever the mood struck, whenever you felt like it; or he could book you all into a suite someplace nice, rooftop gardens, spa services, all of that, everything, Johnny didn't care about the details. He just wanted you to have the bonding time, to be close again, because it's been forever since you recorded together, even Celebrity was done in bits and pieces, the five of you spread out all over, recording alone and in pairs and you really needed this, really needed the time together to get back into the group vibe.

Chris suggested Nashville, lots of history, lots to do, close to home for you and Justin, close enough for everyone else. You offered Johnny a realtor's name and number, you didn't have a house there, yet, but you'd done some looking. The guys teased, of course, but you lost track of the banter for a minute, rubbing one hand over your belly, thinking. When you tuned back in, JC's voice bubbling under Justin's, both of them fresh from their solo projects, so different and still so much the same, saying how smooth this was gonna be, the five of you together again, good karma and everything like that. You could hear their smiles, all of them, Joey's too, even though he grumbled a little about being a family man for real now and then you were throwing up in the tiny trash can beneath your desk, quietly you hoped, and you stopped paying attention all together.

That was the afternoon you drove around for hours, the windows open and the music turned low, the wind rushing all around, a whisper in your ears, like doubt, like the goldensoft sand dusting your skin. You kept driving until the sun started to set, until you settled on a pharmacy in some desert town, shaky and uncertain, but you just kept moving, up and down the aisles, dropping things into your basket. Mouthwash, a magazine with Justin's picture on the cover, a box of Kleenex, black licorice, a birthday card and then finally, reluctantly, you dropped that bright blue box into your basket, too.

You'd looked at it every day since then, opened it up and read the instructions inside, every day for two weeks now, over and over until you knew the words by heart, knew them in Spanish, even, as if it might make more sense in another language, might somehow explain how any of those words could apply to you. But it doesn't. It can't, because despite all the jokes early on about your skin and your hips and your pretty, pretty eyes, you've grown up since then, grown into your looks and your body and clearly, clearly, you are not a girl. You'd know something like about yourself, you would, but here you are, another four minutes gone by and this test just as positive as the last one, only today you have an early meeting and two interviews and you still have to pack. You have a flight to catch tomorrow, a flight to Nashville, and you think you'd better schedule a doctor's appointment in there somewhere, but the only doctor you can trust is back in Mississippi, and you think this is maybe a little out of her league. You have no idea whose league it might be in though, so really, it's an easy call to make. Mostly.

You shuffle your schedule and change your flights and tell Johnny you need to see your doctor, nothing major, just routine, but you know he'll assume it's a heart thing and so will the guys and no one will give you a hard time about arriving a day later than everyone else. Besides, you'll put in extra time if they need you to, but they won't, and everyone knows that, too.

**. . .**

Dr. Shelley has steely hair and three grandchildren and her office smells like cherry lollipops and antiseptic and you've never been able to put anything past her, ever, not that you haven't tried. You aren't sure what you'll say, how you'll explain, and you still haven't decided when she knocks on the exam room door, twice, calling your name softly. You have just enough time to sit up a little straighter and take one last breath before she's right there, your chart tucked under her arm and her eyes on yours, and you know the examination's already begun.

"Howdy, kiddo," she says, finally, and your breath catches right where it is. You can't hide here, not with the waxy white paper crinkling beneath you and your fingernails digging half-moons in your palms. Not when she smiles and says, "I know your momma wasn't expectin' you today, so c'mon and tell me whatever it is so y'all can visit some before you fly out in the mornin'."

She knows you, knows your family, knows how much it means to you, being able to come home and warm up in her sunny yellow office, and you know how much you need this, how much you trust her, and still, you can't bring yourself to say the words. You can't, you shake your head, swallowing hard, the bob of your Adam's apple dangerously thick. You close your eyes, tired even though you'd gotten in a nap on the plane. "Not feelin' too good, Doc," you whisper, hoping it's enough.

"C'mon, honey. Just say it quick and so we can get to work on makin' it better. It's just me and you in here, and we're not tellin' anybody else, okay?"

Okay, you think, okay, just start small. "Been sick, Doc," you say, lifting your eyes to hers, hearing your accent slide around your tongue again, like you never left home at all. "Sick on my stomach in the mornin', and so tired, fallin' asleep on my feet every afternoon."

"Mmm," Dr. Shelley nods, taps her pen a little. "Anything else?"

"Uhm, I feel better at night?" You shrug, it's not what you meant to say, and you try to explain, "More energetic? I almost feel like I'm gonna be fine, like I'm gettin' over this, but then I wake up queasy in the mornin', and I just. I know that's not it at all."

She jots a few notes in your chart, looks at you again, smiles. "Any chance you're pregnant?"

"Well, no? That's not possible, right?"

"Well, I wouldn't've thought so, but here you are, morning sickness to a T. So, tell me, if you were a girl, is it something we'd be considerin' now?"

You duck your head, dizzy, just for a second, because you've been considering it for a while now, it's why you're here, but hearing it out loud is different, real, and for some reason, you weren't expecting it to hurt. You nod anyway.

"Okay, kiddo. Let's just run some tests and see what we see."

She draws your blood, still smiling, chatting about nothing, her voice lilting like your momma's. She needs a urine sample, too, and after you pee in the cup you shuffle back to the exam room and curl up in the stiff little chair, yawning. It's nap time, and your belly knows it, rolling around like it can't get comfortable, and you know if you can manage to fall asleep you might not throw up. Sometimes it works, and besides, sleeping makes the whole business of waiting just that much easier, which makes you smile, because really, that's so JC.

**. . .**

"But I'm a guy," you say, eyes fixed on the ultrasound, on the blur Dr. Shelley says is your baby. "Right?"

"Of course, honey. You're male through and through."

You nod, because you are, you always have been. "But I'm pregnant?"

"You are that, too." She shrugs then, smiles. "Hey, it happens. Sometimes folks have more parts than the textbooks like to talk about, a second spleen or an extra toe, it's more common than you think. Usually it's nothing so dramatic as all this, but kiddo, you've never been one to live small, right?"

"We're recording, you know? There's gonna be videos, and appearances and a million interviews. Doc, there's gonna be a tour -–"

"Now just you hush and take a deep breath. Keep breathin', get dressed, and we'll talk more in few minutes, I promise."

Behind the little curtain, you clean the goo from your belly like you have so many times before, different goo of course, but still, it makes you smile. It's real, you think, your hand hovering over your skin, warm and real and so fucking impossible. You can't, you can't have a baby, you're in a boyband for god's sake.

"I can't do this," you say, softly, sliding the curtain open and meeting Dr. Shelley's eyes. You hope she knows what you mean. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," she says. "It's a lot to take in all at once, but I want you to think about it for a little while. Give it a week, Lance. Just a week, and if you still feel the same, we'll deal with it then, okay?"

"Okay," you agree. "A week."

A week, and she knows exactly what you mean, and she's not judging you, you can tell. Still, she talks and you listen, nodding, choices and nutrition and lots of extra sleep. You keep nodding, thinking one week, you can do this for one more week, and then she hands you a little package, pamphlets and prenatal vitamins and you have to pee, again. She squeezes your arm and says to say hi to your folks for her; she says one of these days she's gonna get your momma to give up her pecan pie recipe and you smile, say you'll see what you can do.

**. . .**

It's Justin who finds you slouched over the toilet your first morning in Nashville, stomach empty and too tired to move. He knows you're not hung over, knows you didn't drink last night because you fell asleep on JC's shoulder, sprawled on the downstairs sofa, the TV turned low and the guys talking all around you. He doesn't say anything, though, just slips his arms around you and helps you stand, brushes sweat-damp hair from your forehead and holds you close until the shaking stops.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into his shoulder, rubbing your cheek on the soft cotton of his t-shirt. "So sorry, Justin. Didn't mean to wake you up this early."

"'S okay, baby," he murmurs. "Got up to go runnin', that's all. Gonna tuck you back in now, okay?"

It's more than okay, especially when he tucks himself in behind you, warm and strong and so familiar you feel your eyes swell with hot tears. Justin's always been a cuddler, and he hums softly as you slide back into sleep, rubbing slow circles on your back and you've missed this, missed him, and you think you should ask about Chris, make sure, but you don't. You can't, and you trust him, you always have, and really, that's enough.

By the third morning, Justin's just waiting for you. He holds your head and helps you rinse your mouth out, makes you ginger tea. You take a few sips before you're half asleep again, Justin's body wrapped around you like a ribbon, his breath in your hair and there's just something about him that makes everything seem a little easier. Just because he's Justin.

Not that all the guys haven't been wonderful, because they have been, JC especially, sweet and warm, his eyes full of questions he hasn't found the words for, and you wonder if Justin's told him about your mornings. You don't think so, don't think he's told any of them, because the guys aren't treating you like you're sick, not exactly, more like your fragile, breakable, and you're pretty sure they're worried about your heart. You tell them it's fine now, really, but they see how tired you are, and you know they don't quite believe.

Still, it's so good just being together again. Johnny was right, you did need this, all of you. The house is wonderful, too, warm and cozy, just big enough for the five of you to feel close but not crowded, and of course, the acoustics are amazing. You love the way your voices know each other, how easy it is to slip your voice beneath theirs, how much you missed the way this feels, their voices sliding over your skin and filling up all the empty spaces in between. You love the way JC's eyes flash and Justin smiles and Chris stills and Joey just opens up even wider. You love being one of them, you always have. You still thank god every morning for giving you this chance, because you know it didn't have to turn out this way, all of you together, and really, you're so fucking grateful.

Now, too, and you swipe at your eyes and sniffle a little, pulling the quilt up over your shoulders. Justin snuggles closer, slides one of his hands around your hip and suddenly you're so much warmer than before. "Shhh," he whispers. "It's gonna be okay, Lance. Just sleep now."

"You promise?"

Justin hesitates, and your belly flip-flops, rolls around and you take a deep breath in, exhaling slowly, hoping you can make it stop. You're too tired for another round in the bathroom, even though you know you got off easy this morning, mostly just dry heaves and you even kept down some tea. Dr. Shelley had said the worst of the morning sickness was probably over, but you didn't think she'd sounded too sure.

"Lance?" Justin asks, his voice soft, his fingers splayed across your chest. "It's really not your heart, right?"

"Right," you say, because your heart does ache but you know that's not what he means. "All that's fine now, J."

"Good," he says, trailing his fingers lower, his palm spreading over your belly. "But you don't have the flu, either, do you?"

"Not exactly, no." You feel the heat of his hand seeping through your t-shirt, warming your skin, and you want to say more but you can't, not yet. "But I'm not, like, _sick_ , or anything, okay?"

"Okay," he says. "I promise, then. 'S gonna be all right."

Justin's warm and safe and you fall asleep just listening to him breathe, his hand over the soft curve of your belly, barely there. _Almost gone_ , your mind whispers, but Justin's here now, and he promised, and you're really just too tired to dream.

**. . .**

Johnny wanted you all together for three weeks, maybe more, but you'd have the house for as long you wanted it, which was nice, you thought, grabbing another bottle of water from the pantry. He'd even sent out a week by week schedule, like you couldn't have worked it out yourselves. Four days on, two days off, and one just to regroup, and you knew Joey asked for that because it made his flights back and forth a little easier, gave him some extra time with Kelly and Bri. Because even though you all put other projects on hold to come back to the group, it wasn't any sort of secret that Joey had the most to lose.

You knew Joey was enjoying this, though, knew that he'd missed it, too. You knew as soon as you saw his face that first night, soft and happy, his eyes dancing as he teased JC, one hand stirring something on the stove and the other floating through the air, a perfect imitation of JC's wild gestures. You aren't surprised to find him beside you now, his shoulder brushing against yours, his lips pressed in a thin line. He's worried, and you know that, too.

"Watcha doin', Bass?"

"Water," you say, lifting the bottle a little. "Been dehydrated lately." It's true, you have been, and nothing makes the nausea creep back quicker, either, so you're diligent about forcing fluids. Of course, it also explains why you have to pee every three seconds, which turns out to be a bonus because, really, it's not like the guys wouldn't notice. "You want?" you ask, pulling another bottle from the shelf.

"Nah, I'm good." Joey scrubs his fingers through his hair, his brows furrowed, and you think he's never looked more like his father than he does right now. "Worried about you, man. You're too tired. You sleep more than JC, and you know that's too much. You know that, right?"

He's cute like this, all protective and nervous, and you wish you could tell him, you do, but you can't. You're pretty sure he wouldn't freak, but then again, you doubt he'd believe you, either. "It's not my heart, Joe. I promise. Swear to God, my heart's fine."

Joey's eyes search your face, he knows all of your tells, but the only thing to see is what you didn't say, which of course, he doesn't miss. "And the rest of you?"

"I'm workin' on it, man. But it's not serious, really, and I'm goin' back for a check-up over the weekend. Just to be sure, okay?"

"Okay," he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and leaving it there as you walk back to the little studio. You think it used to be a sitting room, maybe, think it still sort of is, throw rugs and antiques and paintings on the walls. "Okay for now," Joey says. "But if you're not better soon..."

"Yeah, man. I know." Joey's always been a caretaker, and you remember how he was when Kelly was pregnant, sweet and scared and just shining through with love. You blink hard and clear your throat, thankful you're a bass because between the throwing up and the overload of emotions, your voice is raw and aching all the time now. "So how 'bout you, Joe? How're you doin'?"

"Good. I'm good, man. I mean, it's hard being away, but Bri's used to this, just a few days at a time, and it's nice here, ya know?"

"I know," you say, smiling, leaning into Joey's shoulder a little. You like this house, like the way sunlight spills through the square-paned windows, like the way you feel here, all wrapped up in the guys and the music and, "I missed all y'all, too."

**. . .**

Joey's flight leaves late on Friday afternoon, and he pulls you close before he ducks into the waiting car. Chris and Justin are road-tripping to Memphis for the weekend, Justin declaring he ain't no momma's boy, he's just got obligations, and Chris rolling his eyes, laughing, because sure, Justin's got obligations, obligations to his momma.

Chris tosses their bags into the back of the SUV and ruffles your hair, makes you promise to call Justin after your doctor's appointment tomorrow, and you swallow hard, hot tears and goodbyes and words you aren't quite ready for yet.

"Chris," you say, and his eyes are so soft, dark and open and you know exactly why Justin loves him, has always loved him, why you've always loved him a little, too. "Y'all don't need to worry, okay? I'm sorry about bein' so blah this week, but I'm better now, already, so. I'll call if you think it'll be easier but, ah, it's okay if it's not, yeah?"

"Dude, just call, okay? I don't wanna be drivin' back here early because you're suddenly too shy to pick up the damn phone." Chris scowls, but you see the lines curve around his eyes, and you know there's a smile in there somewhere, too. "Seriously, man. Call. You know how he gets."

"Like he'd ever leave Lynn's early," you say, and Chris smirks and lifts his hand for a high-five. You both laugh, but yeah, you know how Justin gets, have seen him worry himself ragged, seen him skinny and pale and awake for days, and you know you don't ever want to see it again. You also know he isn't that kind of worried, not yet, and he isn't going to be, either, but, "Okay, yeah, I'll call as soon as I know anything. I promise."

"Cool," he says, hugging you close, and for a few seconds your whole world is Chris, scruffy and solid and feathery sweet, and then he spins you free, pointing you towards the house. "Now go kiss my boyfriend goodbye and tell him I said to get his diva ass out here so we can hit the road!"

**. . .**

You call Jesse and run through your schedule, and after that you get lost in your email and it's hours before you realize you're alone with JC now, just the two of you. JC snuggles up behind you and closes your laptop and his hair smells like lilacs and his lips taste just like you remember. It's so good, curled up on the couch, kissing and kissing, the build of desire so slow and it's been so, so long. JC's soft hands searing your skin and his voice, oh god, his voice, so sexy like this, slurry words falling like warm rain. You're dizzy and breathless and it's so different now, your body, the way you feel, so different and so much the same and you wonder, god, you wonder.

"Lance," he breathes, and you lick at his lips, wanting more. More words, more kisses, more of whatever this is, this slow simmering in your blood. "Lance," and it's almost a moan. "So sexy, cat. Beautiful, you're beautiful, baby."

You feel drunk almost, tingly and hot and you're pretty sure this is how you got in trouble in the first place, but it's JC, silky and solid and you can't really focus on anything else, not with your fingers all tangled in his hair and his mouth on your belly, shivery sweet. And still he's murmuring, licking lower, soft slips of sound until he takes your dick in his mouth, so much slick heat and it feels so good, JC's tongue and his throat and his hands on your body, lighting fiery trails beneath your skin. Guitar-string calluses brushing your nipples, jolts of pleasure spiraling from someplace deep inside you, someplace you didn't even know was there. JC swallows hard, and you're coming before you even mean to, black sparks and white noise and JC's fingers inside you, his voice like a heartbeat, and it's everything, everything, and already it's too much because you _know_.

Somehow, you make it up to your bedroom, sleepy and boneless and JC fucks like a dream, all intense and wanting, focused, like he has all the time in the world but right now is the only moment that matters. You think he looks like an angel, his hair all tangled around his face, damp curls glowing in the half-light. "JC," you plead, rolling your hips, loving the way his body moves against yours, thrusting closer and arching away at the same time, like liquid heat, his whole body flushed through with desire. "God, you, Jayce," and it's as coherent a thing as you can manage, JC coming inside you, his head bowed down, kiss-swollen lips on yours, bitten rough and still so fucking sweet.

It should be complicated but it isn't, it's easy and right and you fall asleep with JC's arms wrapped around you, one of his hands splayed over your belly, over the soft curve you couldn't hide now even if you tried. You wake up like that, too, sweat slick and stuck together, the beat of his pulse racing through your skin. You wake up a little dizzy and still tired and JC mumbles in his sleep, he nuzzles closer and your eyes aren't even open yet but you're awake now, and so damn happy. Blissful, really, and you enjoy it for as long as you can before your body propels you out of bed, stomach rolling up and up and you're almost grateful to slump over the cool porcelain and just let it all go.

If Justin weren't in Memphis he'd be here now, humming softly and helping you rinse, but he's not, and you sniffle a little, too tired to move. Then JC's kneeling beside you, a tiny paper cup in his hand, warmish water and he waits for you to swish and spit before he flushes the toilet again and takes the cup away. You're waiting for him to say something, ask you something, anything, but he doesn't, he just pulls you back a little and holds you close, his breath ruffling your hair, hands drifting over your belly, light and sure.

"Lance," he murmurs, just your name over and over and then, finally, "C'mon, honey. Whatever it is, you'll feel better, promise, just let it out," and the way he's touching you, so careful, it feels like he knows, but he doesn't, at least you don't think he does. How could he?

"JC," you start, "JC, I -" and then your stomach flips and you're pitching forward again, and it just fucking _hurts_. JC's all warm words and warm skin and you should say something, you want to, but you can't. You need to get up, get moving, get to the airport and get to your appointment so you can get on with this, get it over with, but you _can't_.

Tears now, and you hate this, all these emotions mixed in with everything else and it's just too much, you're too tired, and it's too much. JC presses a cool cloth to the back of your neck, kisses your forehead and steers you back to bed.

While you doze, JC packs your overnight bag and makes some calls and fixes you tea and sourdough toast. He slices fresh peaches and rinses blueberries and by the time you're showered and dressed and feeling half-human again, he has your favorite fruit salad all ready to go and there's a car waiting outside and suddenly there's a million things you don't have time to say. JC's lips are soft when he kisses you at the door, and you aren't surprised at all when he holds your hand and walks outside with you, smiling as he nods at the driver and slides across the dark backseat, settling in beside you and not ever letting go.

**. . .**

If Dr. Shelley is surprised to see two popstars at her door instead of just one, she doesn't let it show. She just ushers you both in and locks up behind you, all smiles and chit-chat as she shoos you down the hall. Before you know it, Dr. Shelley's listening to your heart and looking in your ears and JC's telling her you how you say you're getting better but he doesn't really think so, because you were sick again this morning even though you were fine last night. You blush at that, and Dr. Shelley looks in your eyes, shines her little light at your pupils and then turns it off again and really looks, and you wonder exactly what she sees, because she smiles and nods and when she turns away to jot a few notes in your chart, you see that JC's smiling, too.

"I really am feeling better, Doc," you say, because it's true, you are, and you want to reassure JC. "I mean, this morning wasn't a good one, but, uhm, I think I've been more energetic, and I've been taking those vitamins, too. At night though, because it's easier, y'know? That's okay, right?"

"That's fine," she tells you, pausing for just a second before she says, "We're just gonna do some more blood work, and maybe take another look inside, like last time, so, JC? There's coffee back in my office, made fresh just before y'all came in. Sweet rolls, too, just down the hall, second door on the right. Go ahead, honey. There's no one else here, so just feel free and help yourself, okay?"

JC thanks her, and brushes his fingers across the back of your hand, warm and soft and it's the way he's always touched you, only more. You smile, and JC bites his lip and squeezes your fingers and you know how much he hates needles, how much he wishes he didn't. "It's okay, Jayce. It'll just be a couple minutes, yeah? We'll be done by the time you get back."

"Yeah," he says, and the door snicks shut behind him, and you don't like how both of those sounds feel so much the same. You don't like it at all.

"Ready, kiddo?" Dr. Shelley asks, and then she draws your blood, three vials and a band-aid and that's it. "Put some pressure there, okay?"

"Okay," you say, closing your eyes, just for a moment, because it's so hard, all of this, because it's not okay, and you _can't_. "I want," you start, stuttering a little, because you do want, you've always wanted, even before. "I mean, last time? I thought I could, but I can't."

It takes her a few seconds to figure out what you're saying, what you want, what you want _now_ , but when she does, a slow smile spreads across her face. "JC?" she asks, and you feel your cheeks flush warm pink. "Does he know?"

You shake your head, and you think there must be words for this, for what you want to say now, for the way you feel, but you can't seem to find them. You open your mouth, and close it, and Dr. Shelley hands you something pink and cottony, and reminds you the opening goes in the front.

You pull the curtain and strip down to your boxers, grateful you get to keep those on, at least for now. You try not to think about what comes later, how much you'll have to take off between now and then, what you'll keep with you and what you'll leave behind.

"Lance?" Dr. Shelley clears her throat and you slide the curtain open, all awkward and exposed, crossed arms holding the loose jacket-thing closed since apparently, these things don't come with ties. "You can do this, kiddo. You just need to tell him," she says, and you know she means now. "It's too much to keep inside."

"I _know_ ," you say, and then you smile, thinking about how much she's done for you already, how much more she's going to do, and you know she'll never breathe a word of it to anyone, not without your permission, not ever. "Thank you."

She grins, and ruffles your hair, and when she opens the exam room door you smell coffee and lilacs and you know JC's been waiting for you there, just across the hall. His eyes are worried and when you reach for him, his hand is sweaty and cool, fingernail half-moons dug into his palms.

Dr. Shelley says she's going to give you two a minute, and JC drops into the chair by the door, tugging you with him, and for a moment that's all there is again, just JC's arms around you, solid and strong and you close your eyes and breathe him in.

"You're scarin' me, cat," he whispers, and god knows, that's the last thing you want to do. You pull away just enough to see his face, and he runs his thumb over your mouth and kisses you, so sweet, just the press of his lips against yours. "For luck," he says, and it's enough to make your eyes fill with tears.

"Jayce," you say, sliding your hands over his chest, the feel of his heart beating beneath your fingers, steady and sure. "JC," and still, you don't know what else to say. "You know I love you, right?"

JC smiles, and looks down, curls his fingers around your hip. "Man, I love you, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, his voice a little softer now, and you wish like crazy you weren't having this conversation half-dressed in a doctor's office. You wish you weren't nauseous and thirsty and trying not to yawn, but you're happy to be snuggled in his lap at least, close enough to feel the hum of his voice before he speaks. "Dude, yes. And whatever's going on with you, please just tell me. I'm still gonna love you. No matter what."

"Okay," you say, taking a deep breath, waiting for JC to take one, too. "Okay, here it is, and I know this isn't possible, but don't freak out, okay? Doc says I'm doing fine, Jayce. I mean, I've been sick and everything, you know that, but I'm not sick, okay?" JC looks confused, but patient, and you know he'll listen until you find the words you're searching for, and it's almost worse, knowing that, because you know you won't find them, know that even if you say the words in Spanish, they still won't be enough. "I'm not sick, Jayce. I'm pregnant."

JC laughs then, quick and startled, and you see it in his eyes, a shadow that wasn't there before, and all you can do is watch as he blinks it away and shakes his head. "It's cool, man. You don't have to tell me, whatever, I just, you know, I'm here for you, cat."

"Okay," you say, and close your eyes and sniffle into his shoulder, just for a minute before you slide off his lap and reach for the door. JC follows you up, wrapping his arms around your middle, hands settling over your belly and it feels so right, just like this, and you hope, _fuck_. You just hope. "I wanna show you something, okay?"

JC nods, and you reach out again and open the door.

"Doc," you call softly, sure she hasn't gone far, and she hasn't. "Uhm, I'd just, I'd like to show him, if that's okay?"

"Sure thing, kiddo," she says. "Up on the table with you. And you," she says to JC, looking just over your shoulder and trying not to smile, "No needles, but go ahead and pull that chair over here, just in case."

You lay back on the table, cool gel on your belly and your eyes fixed on JC's. He's still holding your hand and Dr. Shelley's still talking softly, and you know this is the only way. JC's riveted, still not sure what he's seeing, but he's getting there, he's so, so close.

"Is it supposed to be so loud in there?" he asks, and you bite your lip, because of course JC notices the way it sounds. You watch him listening now, his head tilted to side, and there's so much to hear, the jack-rabbit pulse and this whole noisy, watery world inside you. JC smiles, and leans close, kneeling on the chair and squeezing your hand, and for a second you think he's going to kiss you again, but he doesn't. "Dude, does that sound right?"

"It sounds just fine," Dr. Shelley says. "A strong, healthy heartbeat. Perfectly normal, all the way around."

"Heartbeat," JC breathes, looking from the screen to Dr. Shelley and back to the screen. "Heartbeat," he says again. "Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"Heartbeat?"

"Heartbeat," you say, and then JC does kiss you, his fingers on your cheek, warm breath and soft lips, so full of wonder you can almost taste it when you add, "Yours," and kiss him back.

JC shifts a little, still leaning close, and Dr. Shelley slides the ultrasound around your belly, a different angle, and you both turn to see the screen. It's so clear, so real and so tiny and whoa. There are tears in JC's eyes and yours, too, and Dr. Shelley hands you a box of tissues and says, "Welcome to the second trimester," and doesn't try to hide her smile.

JC's a little shell-shocked, but he isn't freaking out or anything, and you don't know what you expected, exactly, but you don't think it was this, JC smiling softly while he listens to Dr. Shelley talk about prenatal care and special circumstances, looking over the list of OB's she wants you to think about bringing in for the C- section, a procedure you'll talk more about later, she promises. JC runs his finger down the list of names, stopping at the one with the little star beside it, the one Dr. Shelley says delivered both of Stacy's babies, too.

You don't think you have anymore tears left for the day, you really don't, but then Dr. Shelley hands you a printout from the ultrasound JC asks if you can get a video copy, too, because, "Dude, we're gonna tell the guys and everything like that," and your eyes fill right up, tears spilling over before you can blink them away.

**. . .**

JC curls up beside you on the porch swing at your mom's, one hand curved around your belly and the other tucked against his own chest, and every once in a while he whispers _God_ or _Lance_ or _How?_ and when he opens his eyes he just smiles, like it doesn't matter, or like it's the only thing that does matter, and all you can do is run your fingers through his hair and smile right back. It's easy enough to call Justin and tell him you're doin' fine, tell him Dr. Shelley said as long as you eat right and get plenty of rest there's nothing to be concerned about, because she really did say all that, and because right now there's nothing else you want to say. It's too new still, and too soon, and you want to tell them all at once, together, and you think JC's right, it'll be easier with the video.

Justin's full of news from home, Lynn and Trace and there's something in the way he sounds, something soft and wistful and then you hear Chris in the background, teasing a smile back into Justin's voice and when Justin says, "Hey, don't forget to call C, okay?" and you can't believe it's only been a day, just a day, and really, you have no idea how any of you survived the hiatus.

"Don't have to call him, J. He's right here."

You hear Justin's frown over the phone, hear Chris's voice rise a little, a question, and then Justin asks it himself. "Dude, what?"

"What, what? JC is here. Like, _right_ here. You wanna talk to him?"

JC yawns and kisses your cheek and talks to Justin, tells him your doctor is still the coolest old lady ever, and you're really okay, really, and then JC's fingers trail down your neck and over your bicep and he smiles into the phone and murmurs something too low for you to catch. Whatever he says is apparently what Justin needs to hear, because after that it's, "Dude, you know the backbeat on that one track?" and when you wake up, there's a soft quilt folded all around you and JC's in the garden with your mom, laughing, tucking a flower behind her ear.

**. . .**

It's Sunday night when Chris asks, "How the hell are ya, Bass? And I'm on to your _gettin' better_ game, so no bullshit, okay?" Joey's eyes are half-closed but he smiles, lifts his head up from the back of the couch and scoots a little closer. Justin and JC are sifting through a stack of dvds, back and forth through a complicated set of criteria but Justin bites his lip and you know he's listening. JC smiles and nods and you take a deep breath and when you open your mouth the words just slip right out, _I'm pregnant_ , soft and impossible and true.

Chris laughs, sharp and quick, and right away Justin starts looking around for Ashton Kutcher, but Joey just looks at you, his eyes flicking from yours to JC's and back again. JC fiddles with the dvd player for a minute and then your ultrasound fills the screen, as captivating here as it was in Dr. Shelley's office. JC's eyes are all wide and dreamy and Justin stops cursing about the whole Punk'd thing and just stares at the TV. He tilts his head toward JC and you watch them together, both of them, and you think again how similar they are, and how different, and you're beyond grateful to know you'll never have to choose.

It's easier than you thought it would be, but it's harder, too, because JC didn't have a lot of questions after he heard the baby's heart beating inside you, but Chris isn't JC and he wants to know. Everything, he wants to know everything, how and why and where, and fuck, you just don't have a lot of answers. You try, though, and it's not long before he's finally done with the serious questions and you just take a deep breath and hold on, because Chris is still all wound up and from the road trip and two days at Lynn's and you know there's no stopping him now.

"So it's not a Bass family thing, then?" Chris asks, pulling at his goatee. "You weren't all, like, born of your fathers, or whatever? A backwater gene pool thing, like that X-Files, you remember that one? Dude, that would be cool."

"God, Chris. No. My momma gave birth to me at the hospital, just like yours did. There's pictures and everything."

"They could be fakes," Chris offers, grinning, and you know he's working it all out in his head and making it real, making it _his_ , and it's what you love most about Chris, how open he is, how much he just _loves_. "We should have those pictures analyzed, Bass."

Justin rolls his eyes and tosses an empty jewel case at Chris. "We should have you analyzed, freak."

Chris protests, loudly, and JC reclaims his spot beside you on couch, and you're sort of caught up in the moment, in Chris and Justin, the way they sound together, laughing, the way you all sound, and that's when you realize something's missing, someone, Joey, and fuck, you weren't expecting this, not from him.

"Second trimester?" he asks, and you hear the rest of the question in his voice before he asks it, hear the tight sound of his lips pressed in a thin line and when you meet his eyes, you almost wish you hadn't. "Dude, that's pretty far. How long have you known about this?"

"Uhm, a week? That's when I saw the doc, a week ago. That's when I knew for sure."

It's not dark out yet, and the light through the windows is warm and blue and you think it would taste sweet now, soothing, almost like home. JC leans a little closer to you, his fingers closing around yours and you know he feels it, too. "For sure?" Joey asks, frowning. "As in what, you just, like, _suspected_ before that?"

"I didn't think it was possible, Joe. I just. I didn't know."

"You knew for a week," Joey says, and you know he's not trying to be an ass, he's just thinking, just thinking it through. "You knew you were _pregnant_ , and you didn't say anything for a whole week? We were worried about you, man, and you knew we were worried."

Justin looks up then, frowning, and you know he's torn between defending you and wanting to know _why_ , why you didn't tell him, why you didn't just whisper it one morning, buried under the covers, scared and half-asleep, because he would have been there for you. He would have believed you, he would done everything he did anyway, brought you tea, smoothed your hair, and more even, because he's Justin, and because you're Lance. You see it written in the wrinkles around his eyes now, in the shape of his lips and the way his biceps flex, wanting to reach for you and holding himself back. You wish you could explain it better, because Justin deserves that, they all do. You wish you had words for this kind of love, for the way you feel about them, for the way you feel about yourself when you're all together.

"I'm sorry," you say, and you know it's not nearly enough.

"Sorry?" Joey asks, and Chris scowls, the air around him almost jumping, and you swallow against the feeling in your throat, tight and hot, and you tell yourself it's not shame, and it's _not_. "Don't be sorry, dude. It's just. I don't understand."

"I wasn't. At first, I thought? I didn't think..." JC pulls away from you a little and you take a deep breath, try to gather up all the words you need to get this right. Chris glares at Joey, and you know he's there already, there and back and he doesn't want you to have to say it if you don't want to, and you _don't_ , but you will if you have to, and you think maybe you do. "I just, I didn't know if I could do this, Joe. It was a lot, a shock, and I had to think, you know? I didn't want to say anything if there wasn't any reason."

"No reason?" Joey says, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "You thought you could hide something like this? From us?"

You shake your head, because no, you didn't think that. You thought there wouldn't be anything to hide, and when you look at Joey now, you know he hears what you didn't say, he always does. And god, it's like he's disappointed in you or something, and when he reaches out now it's not for you, it's for JC. Joey's thick fingers weave through JC's, but his eyes don't leave yours and you know there's more there, you know he's sad and angry and yeah, maybe that part's not so much about you, but it still fucking hurts. "Fuck, Joe. Don't you look at me like that."

"So, you were gonna, what, have an abortion?"

"I was thinkin' about it," you say, surprised by the sound of your own voice, the way your breath feels, raw and uneven but still just in and out. You hear JC say something, a question, and you hear your name, maybe, and something else, something worse, but you're not sure because he's moving now, moving away from you. Justin reaches for the remote and when the screen finally goes blank it's almost a relief, because yes, you were thinking about it, you were, and you're not going to apologize for it, either. "I'm entitled to think about it, Joe," but you say it quietly, because it's not what he wants to hear and he's not the one who needs to hear it, anyway.

"What about JC?" Joey asks, and his voice is quiet now too, quiet enough for you to hear JC's bracelets clink against his wrist. He won't look at you, and you hear the hiss of his breath, the creak of the floorboards, and all you can do is close your eyes and pray for an extra minute in the garden at your mom's, pray for the grace to turn back time and do your best to make this all okay. Because, god, it's _JC_ , and _JC's baby_ , and when Joey asks, "What's JC entitled to, Lance?" you don't even know where to begin.

"Everything," you say, finally, because it's the truth, and it always has been, and Joey should know that, too. Outside there are crickets chirping, and the windows are dark, flat reflections of the light inside the room, and JC's gone, his footsteps fading down the hall until you hear the back door open and close and you know JC's out there, alone. You hope someone's going after him because if no one else does you probably will, and you think that's probably not the best idea right now. "Fuck," you say, and Chris's hand brushes your cheek.

"It's gonna be okay," he says, and he sounds like he really believes it. "He loves you, you know he loves you, right?"

"He's JC," you say, and maybe you aren't sure if he loves you like that, but you know he does love you. "He's JC," you say again, and really, there's nothing else to be said.

"I'm gonna talk to him, okay?"

"Okay." You watch Chris card his fingers through Justin's curls before you close your eyes and just listen as Chris's footsteps follow JC's until he's gone too, and there's nothing left to hear but the soft sound of crickets and your own jagged pulse. You wonder if everyone's this melodramatic when they're pregnant, or if it's just you. "Shit."

Justin hands you a bottle of water and folds himself behind you on the couch, rearranging until your head falls back on his shoulder and his long arms wrap all the way around and hold you tight. This sucks, and you knew it would, and you can hardly believe that for a few minutes there you actually thought this was going to be easy.

"Joe?" you say, finally, because Joey's just standing there, and it's not right, it's too quiet, and you don't know what else to do. "You okay?"

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Joey says, and you know he didn't, because Joey wouldn't hurt JC anymore than you would, not on purpose, not if he could help it anyway. "Dude," he says, "I didn't mean to hurt you, either. I didn't."

"I know," and you do, but Joey shakes his head and shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable now. His eyes are sad and guilt-tinged and you aren't surprised at all when Justin unwraps one of his arms from around your waist and tugs Joey a little closer. "It's okay," you say when Joey hesitates, and you hate that he feels like this, like he's unwelcome, or unwanted, because he's not. "C'mere, Joe. C'mon."

He settles in beside you, so careful now, and you promise yourself you're not going to cry. _Love you_ , Joey whispers, _so sorry_ , and Justin sighs and rubs your belly, his cheek pressed against your hair. You aren't sure when he starts humming, or when Joey joins in, but you hope that wherever Chris and JC are they're humming something sweet and tuneless, too.

 

**. . .**

JC's wrapped all around you when you wake up, solid and sleepy and holding on like he's afraid one of you might drift away if he even dreams of letting go. You want to promise him that won't happen, but you think he knows that now, you think that's part of why he left last night, maybe. Not because you'd considered not having the baby, but because he _hadn't_ , not really, and he needed to be sure, needed time to think about that, too. JC's always been relentless about possibilities; it's where all that serenity comes from, knowing that he's already thought everything through.

"Jayce," you whisper, and JC stirs, kissing your shoulder, morning stubble scraping across your skin. It's such a turn on, the feel of him, he's so fucking _male_ , everything about him, the insides of his arms, the slant of his hips, and for the first time in weeks your dick wakes up before your belly, and you want. "Jayce?"

JC smiles slow and lazy, twines his legs through yours and god, the way you just fit together, it's perfect, the slide of his dick against yours. You feel yourself moan before you hear it, deep and needy and JC presses his mouth to the base of your throat and you know he feels the sound there, tastes it on his tongue. "So sexy, cat," he murmurs, licking up your neck, one hand skating down your ribs, around the curve of your hip, his fingers wrapping around your dick and around his, too. "Want you," he says, stroking slow, slow, slow, until your breath catches and JC gasps and rocks his hips. "Want you both," he breathes, and you come just like that, JC's eyes a blur of blue sparks, his hand spreading over your belly, slick and hot.

**. . .**

It takes some doing to finalize the sale, but this house just feels like home now and you really aren't ready to let it go. JC says it's got a happy vibe, and he's right, it does. Justin spends about an hour a week on the phone with Dr. Shelley, no matter where he is, and he and Chris are just in and out all the time now, Joey, too, flooding the house with music and laughter and pretending you aren't a grotesquely pregnant man, which, in fact, you absolutely are.

You're huge and awkward and you can't even see your own dick anymore, but JC says you're more gorgeous than ever and makes you promise you know it's true. He props you up against the mountain of pillows on your bed and blows you senseless, his forehead bumping against your belly and his fingers buried so deep inside you can almost taste them, salty and cardamom sweet.

"Twelve days," JC tells the baby a little later, kissing the words through your skin. She stretches inside you, kicks and rolls over and you think _fuck, twelve more days_. She's restless now, restless and ready and your skin dances where she's pushing against you, trying to make more room. JC rubs his chin there, his lips, feather-light kisses and singsong words and if you close your eyes and just breathe, it almost sounds like he's praying. _Twelve more days_ , you think again, and shift against the pillows. JC tucks a quilt around you, warm and soft and you think maybe you sleep for a few minutes but you're not sure, the baby has the hiccups, and JC's laughing against your belly, his cheeks all happy and pink.

"She say something funny?" you ask, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair. "Or was that you again, tellin' jokes and givin' our girl the hiccups?"

JC leans up and kisses you, and there's a breeze from the open window, soft sounds from the leaves rustling in the trees. "I hope she has your smile," you whisper, and JC's whole face lights up, brighter than the sun.

**. . .**

The first single drops in three weeks and Chris and Justin are in New York with Joey, making an appearance on MTV. The timing isn't great but really, it's the best you could do. Promo is promo, and the video is gorgeous, three and a half minutes of footage that's been stripped down and laid bare and it's perfect for this single, for the sound of your voices all together again. Plus, you're all insanely proud because Chris developed the concept and Joey filmed it himself and together they holed up in Steve's production studio and didn't come out until they had a video they knew would blow everyone away.

It's amazing, all of it, and you wish you could be there, but of course, you haven't made a public appearance in months. Officially, you're reconditioning after minor heart surgery and getting ready to tour. You still do radio phone-ins, and you're a pro at deflecting personal questions and focusing on the group, so as a strategy it's worked out pretty well. It's better when one of the guys does the interview with you, and since JC didn't make the trip to New York you do a bunch of them all in a row, using the digital lines in the studio and making it seem like you aren't calling from home in your pajamas and eating pineapple pieces right out of the can. Midway through the last one, the contractions really start to hurt, spasms all across your front and a deep ache coiled tight in your lower back. You do your best to stay calm but fuck, they're _contractions_ , and it freaks you the fuck out because even if you wanted to push, which you don't, there really isn't anywhere for the baby to go.

You can't do anything about it, and you can't stop the interview, so you snuggle into JC's lap and he rubs your back, distracting the radio guy with goofy stories and murmuring _eight days_ and _love you_ in between. JC laughs, and they play a clip, and you answer some listener questions and somehow JC wraps the call in ten minutes flat and has Dr. Shelley on the line without ever missing a beat.

She asks about the duration of the pain, and the timing of the spasms, and says you're having practice contractions called Braxton Hicks, and they're completely normal. You nod, Stacy told you about Braxton Hicks a few weeks ago, and JC presses a kiss to your forehead, lets out a breath you didn't know he was holding until it ghosts across your cheek.

You think JC's gonna be a wonderful father, and you smile, because you and JC, fathers, and it's never seemed more real than it does right now. _Eight days_ , you think, and it's so close but it's still so far away. "Would it be really bad for the baby if we move the C-section up a little?"

"It wouldn't be _bad_ ," Dr. Shelley says, and you know there's more coming, you even know what it is; your C-section is already scheduled two weeks sooner than normal because your body really wasn't built for this and a full-term delivery is just too much risk. You know this, but it's good to hear it again, anyway. "Every day is important now, but I promise, you're doin' just fine. Rest as much you can, and whatever helps the contractions, do that - relax, take a bath, go for a walk. And don't forget you have a prostate, kiddo. Use it, okay?"

"Doc, god," you stammer, blushing hot and quick because you haven't forgotten about your prostate _at all_. JC loves getting you off, loves fucking you from behind now, his hands on your belly so he can feel the baby move inside and out, and if it weren't so damn hot it would be pervy beyond words, but as it is you feel your dick plumping up just thinking about it. "Let's not go there, okay?"

Dr. Shelley laughs and says something like _good to know_ and then, "You're in good hands, kiddo," and as always, she sounds certain and confident and you think again how lucky you are to know her, to have a doctor who makes everything so simple. "Call me if anything changes, and call your momma, too. She doesn't like to bake when she's worried, and y'all know we're expectin' her on Sunday..."

It's raining outside, cool and lush in the half-light, and you wish you could go out there now, go for that walk Dr. Shelley suggested, but you can't take the chance. Instead you play in the studio for a little while, fooling around with lullabies and nursery rhymes and a couple things JC's started writing for the baby. He says he wants to make music for kids that's more about the way they listen than about how old they are, and you aren't sure exactly what he means but you're all for it, because JC's voice wrapped around a lullaby is the sort of beautiful you don't even have words for, and you're happy to curl up in one of the big chairs and just listen to him sing.

You order in from JC's new favorite sushi place, and JC feeds you red bean ice cream while you watch the guys on MTV. The VJ asks where JC is today, and Chris says it's JC's turn to watch you and Joey laughs, throws his arm around Chris's shoulder and laughs some more. Justin says what an amazing job JC did producing the single, and how proud he is of Chris and Joey for creating the video, and then the VJ interrupts because she's just so psyched to have them back on TRL. Chris smirks at Justin, and Joey introduces the clip, and it's only thirty seconds or something, just enough to give the fans a taste and leave them wanting more. Which they do. The audience loves it, and when the cameras pan back to the guys Joey's smile feels like the old days, and the way Justin's just _beaming_ almost takes your breath away. He doesn't act like it, but you know how much he missed this, missed being able to sit in between Chris and Joey and just be part of something again, something he doesn't have to carry all on his own.

"They look so happy," JC says, and you think JC looks pretty happy, too, smiling at the guys on screen, his hands dancing in the air, his skin a little flushed. "It's a good video and everything like that - you know I love the video - but man, they just look _right_ up there. Happy."

"They do," you say, turning to see him better, the light in his eyes, the way his fingers sift through his hair. JC should be out there, promoting the record, showing off on TRL. He's so beautiful, and so talented, and you feel guilty suddenly, the weight of your decisions thick and heavy in your throat. "Thanks for staying with me, Jayce."

"Oh, honey. No." JC holds you so carefully your eyes well up with tears; he touches your face, gathers you up until his belly is pressed up against yours and you know he feels the spasms there, feels baby rolling over inside. "It's not like that, okay? I _want_ this. I want you and the baby and this _life_ together, all of it, and I don't care what I'm missing out on because I'm not missing anything. I've done all that already, all that promo and all those premieres and anyway, you know there's always more. The single hasn't even dropped yet, cat. You wait, we're gonna be out there so much our moms'll start complaining about all the babysitting we're making them do."

JC's crazy if he really thinks that, because this is Karen's first grandbaby and she's _thrilled_ and no, you know that won't be happening anytime soon. "Our dads maybe," you say, grinning, "But our moms will be hollerin' about us taking her out on tour before they're ready to give her up."

"I _know_ ," JC says, and then he kisses you, soft and sweet. "Hang on a second, okay?"

You nod, because of course you'll hang on, of course, and you would anyway, but right now there's nothing else you'd rather do. JC turns off the TV and tosses the melted ice cream, and on his way back from the kitchen he opens all the windows and turns on the stereo, and the house fills with the sounds of warm rain and old blues.

It's slow, and sexy, and JC sings along a little, holds out his hand and says, "Dance with me, cat," and you catch yourself blushing again, biting your lip. You look ridiculous, but you don't care, you dance until you're breathless then JC turns you in his arms, and holds your hips to his and he just sways, your head tilted back on his shoulder and his voice low and silky in your ear. His hands slide around your belly and you close your eyes and just breathe. JC smells like wind and lilacs and you remember falling in love in with him at seventeen, remember his short hair and his big smile and the way he'd throw his arms around you and just hold on, like you were something special even then.

**. . .**

_Three days_ , JC whispers, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear, his words shivering over your skin. You're naked, backed up against the kitchen counter, feet shifting in the soft sheet draped over the tile floor and JC kissing down your throat, his hands sliding over you, slick with Vaseline. He's casting your belly today, your whole torso, actually, or most of it anyway - one shoulder, half your chest, all of your belly, all the way down to the top of your thighs - and he wants your dick to be sort of plumped and heavy, not hard but clearly visible. You think it's obscene.

But JC's hair is already streaked with plaster and he's wearing these old jeans, faded and paint-splattered and he's gorgeous like this, buzzing and hot and so alive in the flickering light, candles everywhere and there's no way you'd ever say no. Besides, it was too dangerous to take pictures once you'd really started to show, and you think this is maybe something JC needs, so much of your lives has been documented it's sometimes hard to remember there are things that no one ever photographed or recorded or wrote about in sixteen different magazines. You aren't sure this isn't dangerous, too, but JC said anyone who saw it would just think it was like, homoerotic art or something, some trendy gay-parenting thing, and Chris had snorted when he said it, so you figure he's probably on to something there, no matter how much you wish he wasn't.

JC glances at the instructions again, runs his knuckle over the rumpled sheet and squints a little, just to be sure. You love that he's nervous about this, and you touch his cheek, slide your fingers over the scratch of stubble along his jaw. "I trust you, Jayce," and JC smiles, leans in and kisses you again. The last few days have been lawyers and long-ass documents, signing here and initialing there, everything in triplicate and it wasn't easy, but you both knew it had to be done. "You know I trust you, right?"

JC nods, slicks your groin with Vaseline and covers it in plastic wrap, which the instructions say will make it possible to get the cast off without _complications_ , but it's not like any of this was written with your body parts in mind, and the whole thing makes you a little nervous, too. JC palms your dick through the thin plastic and slides his other hand over your hip, slick fingers and JC knows your body now, knows _you_ , and the way he touches you, everything he does, everything, it all just feels so good.

"Beautiful, cat," JC murmurs, and there's something in his voice, something different and you close your eyes for just a moment, trying to see yourself the way JC sees you, and _oh!_ You think maybe you get it now, why this matters so much to him, and you blink hard, swallow back your tears. If you cry, JC will stop what he's doing and you don't want that, you don't want that at all, because he's started dipping the plaster strips in warm water and molding them to your skin, and it's amazing, the way it feels, slippery and wet, JC's fingers smoothing the edges over and over, like he knows exactly what he's doing. He looks for all the world like a struggling artist, all focus and lilacs and tangled curls, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He works quickly, covering you from thigh to shoulder and humming softly as he finishes, smiling while he washes his hands. He nibbles your ear, running clean fingers up and down your back, promising you a bubble bath and a long nap if you hold still while the plaster sets, ten minutes, maybe fifteen.

You know there's still a lot to do before the cast is finished, although your part is almost done. It should be dry by morning, you think, and JC will sand away the bumps and ridges, strengthen the cast with the spackling compound he picked up at Home Depot, thick paste he'll spread with his hands. While you nap in the afternoon he'll start sanding again, fine dust dancing in the air, catching the light and falling all around him, a soft film, powdery on his skin. He'll lay out his brushes and open his paints and even before the colors take shape you know there'll be magic there already, promises and whispered words all layered in between.

**. . .**

Sunrise, and your bag is in the car and the baby's room is ready and JC's arms are wrapped you, his hands on your belly and his head on your shoulder and this is the last time you'll do this, just the two you, standing on the back porch, dawn spreading through the trees like wildfire and the baby just waking up inside you.

"Ready?" JC asks, and you shake your head and smile, because you thought you'd been ready for weeks but right at this moment you don't feel ready at all. JC presses a kiss to your neck and snuggles closer. "We're gonna be dads," he whispers, and his voice catches a little, still so full wonder.

"You're gonna be a great dad," you tell him, and he is, you know he is. "Jayce, if anything happens, promise me --"

"Honey, no," JC murmurs, turning so you're facing each other, so you see his eyes, shiny and certain in the morning light. "Everything's going to be fine. You're healthy, and she's healthy, and everything's all set and we just have to go to the hospital now so you can have your super-secret surgery and we can bring our daughter home, okay?"

Super-secret surgery doesn't even begin to cover the layers of security you have in place for this, not to mention the cover stories and the cover stories to cover the cover stories, but JC likes saying it and as always, it makes you smile. "You're sure you're okay with not naming her right away?"

"I'm sure," he says, gathering you back into his arms, his hands on your belly, his breath warm on your throat. "We already decided this, man."

"I know, but there's gonna be pressure. Especially if our moms are early, which I'm pretty sure they will be. I don't envy you, man. Waiting with them, and probably Lynn, too."

"I'll be strong," JC promises, and you know it's true.

**. . .**

You're more sore than you anticipated the first time you wake up, groggy and still half out of it, but JC's right there, his eyes full of happy tears. "She's okay?" you ask, and JC says, "She's perfect, honey," and you close your eyes and dream. When you wake up again, JC's in bed beside you and your daughter's wrapped in pale cotton, a tiny perfect bundle sleeping soundly on his chest.

You have no idea how long ago that was, but you know Dr. Shelley's been in and out a few times since then, and you figure it's been at least a couple hours. You hear Chris and Justin laughing and Joey shushing them, trying not to wake you. "Hey," you say, but your voice sounds scratchy and barely there. You try again, opening your eyes this time and blinking against the too-bright light. "Hey?"

"Hey," Joey says, and suddenly he's right there, helping you sit up, handing you a glass of water. "You okay, man? You look a little spacey still."

You nod, and take the water, and Chris says, "Dude, he just had a freakin' baby, 'course he's spacey," and you see Justin glance toward the door, which is closed, thank god. You also see someone sent balloons and Chris has tied each of the strings to his fingers and is making the whole bouquet dance in the air, bounces of color in time with his words, and you can't help smiling.

Justin half-sits on the edge of your bed and kisses your cheek and says, "She's beautiful, Lance." He sniffles a little and wipes at his eyes, and you sniffle too, you can't help it. "She's just beautiful, man. Perfect."

"C's a mess, though," Chris says, balloons in motion, and Joey laughs, cuffs his shoulder. "What? He is! All googly eyed and shit, you know. Keeps calling her his little kiwi fruit or something, it's awful, man, you gotta give that girl a name soon."

You roll your eyes, because it doesn't sound very much like JC to you, although the baby is covered in this pale sort of fuzz. It's soft, almost downy, and Dr. Shelley said it protected her skin while she was inside you and it'll fall off in a couple days, which you're pretty sure JC thinks is maybe almost a shame. You wish she was with you now, you want to hold her, feel her skin and kiss her fingers and, "Jayce is still here somewhere, yeah?"

"Dork," Chris says, slipping the strings from his fingers and setting the balloons free. He presses his palm to your cheek, cool and dry, and you lean into his touch, just a little. "'Course he's still here."

"He took the grandparents down to the nursery, man," Joey tells you, "which is where we're headed, too, 'cause you're supposed to be sleeping and that ain't likely with these clowns hangin' around."

Chris winks and runs his fingers through your hair, leaves you with messy spikes you hope make you look better than you feel. Justin holds your hand and tells you again your daughter is beautiful and promises they'll be back soon, and Joey wraps you up in as big a hug as he can manage and whispers _love you, man_ and _so proud of you_. You hug him back, and it means so much to you now, to know that he's proud, and you sniffle a little more and hope your damn hormones straighten themselves out soon.

You're tired, and you know you're supposed to be sleeping, but it's just not working out. You get up to pee and oh, isn't _that_ an adventure, and by the time you shuffle back to bed Dr. Shelley's waiting for you, your chart in her hands and a fresh vase of flowers on your nightstand. She checks your vitals and examines your incisions and she says you're doin' just fine, and you believe her, you really do. You made these arrangements with the hospital in advance, of course, your own doctors and private security and it's costing you a fortune but it's worth it, every penny.

"Doc," you say, and she smiles up from your chart. "Doc, everything's okay, I mean, with the baby? She's really okay?"

"She's perfect, kiddo. Y'all have a perfectly normal, perfectly healthy baby girl."

"She's so tiny," you say, biting at your lip, certain that you could have carried her at least another week, that you should have, because she's so much smaller than she seemed to be when she was still inside you, and you haven't seen her in hours and you don't know why she needs to spend so much time in the nursery if she's really okay.

Dr. Shelley puts down your chart and picks up your hand and when she looks you in the eye you find yourself breathing a little easier without even really trying. "Lance, I promise you, she's perfectly fine. She's a little one, sure, but she'll grow out of that! She will. Now y'all rest up, because newborns don't sleep through the night and I know your momma's stayin' for a few days, but she's too old for 2am feedings. And lord, she'd be ill as a hornet if she knew I said that, so don't you breathe a word, hear?"

"Your secret's safe with me," you say, and she squeezes your fingers and dims the lights and you think you might be able to sleep now, finally.

**. . .**

You think you're still dreaming when you wake up again and JC's sitting cross-legged on your bed, the baby cradled in his arms and both of them cooing softly, staring into each others eyes. You think it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"She knows your voice," you say, and JC's smile brightens the whole room. The baby makes a tiny, pleased sound, and JC kisses her, leans forward and kisses you, too.

"You think?" he asks, tilting his head a little, and it's all you can do not to reach for her, but then you don't have to because JC's tucking her against your shoulder, one hand still cupped protectively around her head even as your fingers slip in between. "She misses you, cat. I can totally tell. She doesn't like being in the nursery at all."

"Good," you say, already sliding the pale pink cap from her head so you can press your cheek to the wispy curls underneath, dark and shiny, like JC's. You close your eyes and just breathe her in, the scent of her, and it's so primal but she's _yours_ , yours and JC's. JC wraps his arms around you and it just feels so right, the three of you, like this is the way it was always supposed to be.

You think she glows, warm and rosy, her fingers curled against your collarbone, blinking up at you when JC slides the little cap back over her curls. She purses her tiny lips and you think maybe she's going to cry, but she doesn't, she just yawns and closes her eyes, stretches a little, already fast asleep.

"Just like her daddy," you say, and JC laughs. He's tired, too, you can see it in his eyes, tired and happy and so full of light and you know, suddenly, where that light comes from, why it always feels like home when JC smiles. "Grace," you say. "I think her name is Grace."

   
   
 

\-- END -- 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration throughout from _One Kind of Love_ , by Leona Naess. Related ficlets listed below if you want a little bit more. ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lucky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/120962) by [genee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee)
  * [Try](https://archiveofourown.org/works/123384) by [genee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee)




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